


ebb and flow

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Clubbing, Dancing, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Clubbing, dancing, sex in a public bathroom.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 36
Kudos: 100





	ebb and flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OmalleyMeetsTibbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to the lovely and wonderful OmalleyMeetsTibbs. I'm sorry COVID made us cancel the in-person tandem birthday party, we'll try again next year!

It’s a chance encounter, a one-off meeting of eyes across the crowded room. The party is loud and raucous, the bass heavy and the alcohol flowing. The sharp taste of star anise fills Sherlock’s mouth, and the man across the dance floor watches his hips shimmy with eyes the colour of a twilight sky.

They drift, pulled by the eddies of the crowd until they come together, flotsam and jetsam, driftwood caught in the current of a locked gaze.

The man’s hand comes to Sherlock’s waist, claiming, grounding him amid the electric charge crackling within the inches between their sweat-warm bodies. Fingers flitting like unspoken questions, Sherlock brushes his hands up the man’s stomach. Hard flesh flexes beneath the thin fabric of a dark blue t-shirt, and the man’s hips ripple in a smooth roll against Sherlock’s thigh.

His groan disappears into a hungry mouth, ripped away in a greedy breath that steals the air in his throat and sends dizzying sparks of stimulation through his body. Eyes shut tight, Sherlock shimmies forward, pressing into denim and the promise of welcome skin. His fingers sink into golden hair shot through with grey, strands burning like the soft gleam of precious metal beneath pulsing lights as a tongue parts his mouth and flits along the inside of his upper lip.

Their bodies move like the tide, a predictable ebb and flow, a dance as old as time, the push and pull of give and take and eager, clinging hands. Sherlock tastes the bitter bite of anise on his own tongue, rubs it over the man’s inner cheek and pushes his hands into tight pockets. Beneath the stiff fabric, he feels the muscular curve of powerful flesh and welcomes a slick tongue alongside his own.

The music forces them apart, and pulls them together, brought close by the crowd’s movement. Sherlock whirls away, his hand gripped by the man with the twilight eyes, who reels him back in like a wild animal on a tether. He feels like a feral thing, like some fae creature made of light and sound and pulsing, racing heartbeats.

He ducks his head and tastes the salty sting of the ocean over the man’s pulse point, unheeding of the warnings to never drink seawater. Sherlock fills his mouth with the alkaline flavour of waves and fine, white sand, gorging himself on the delicious curve of the man’s arched neck.

Feet tangling, hands locked, they stumble and weave through the mass of people lost to the beat. They bump teeth, noses sliding over jaws, lips leaving sloppy attempts at kisses over cheeks, brows, mouths and chins.

The bathroom is empty when they careen through the door. Feeling less like a wild thing and more like pure energy trapped in physical form, Sherlock lets the man crowd him up against the sinks. Their kisses are pure heat, nuclear fusion sparking between their lips, tongues soothing the burn of teeth and over-eager bites.

His pulse throbs in Sherlock’s bottom lip, and he wraps his legs around the man’s trim waist as his partner backs into an open stall.

The door closes with a bang before the man has him pressed into the wall, hands cupping the curve of Sherlock’s arse through his tight jeans with the force of a castaway holding a lifeline. Sherlock leaves typewriter marks of teeth down the man’s neck, locks his lips on the underside of his jaw and sucks until the man is growling and grunting into his hair.

With a slight slide, Sherlock’s back skidding against the tile wall, their bodies align. Everything turns into friction and the desperate search for pleasure. It’s too much and far too little and all at once. Sherlock doesn’t care if anyone hears as he tilts his head back and keens.

His feet hit the floor, and the man’s hand drops to his fly, working his jeans open with impatient fingers. At the first touch of air against his aching erection, Sherlock groans. When the man’s hand follows, freeing him from his pants and slipping his cock out the front of his open jeans, his legs nearly buckle.

The man loops an arm beneath his armpit to keep Sherlock upright, and Sherlock rewards the favour by attacking the man’s jeans. A stiff, already-leaking cock fills his hand, hot, silk-over-steel skin burning in his palm.

There is nothing synchronized about their strokes, each of them grunting and sighing into an ear, the curve of a neck, the jut of a collarbone, the sweat-slicked tangle of hair as they work toward rapture.

Sherlock comes first, his head rocking back as his eyes flash open. His orgasm washes through him from deep in his body, a rising ripple that spreads to the tips of his fingers, the tender flesh of his kiss-swollen lips. He tightens his hand and whimpers as cum paints the man’s hand, pumping him through the aftershocks until the man clenches his teeth with a click next to Sherlock’s ear and stripes his wrist with his release.

They sag together, spent, shaken, and shuddering, clinging weakly with sticky fingers and searching mouths. A husky, wheezing voice whispers against Sherlock’s temple, “You were right about the whole pretending we don’t know one another thing. That was _hot.”_

Sherlock’s chuckle is high and endorphin-strained as curls stick to his forehead, plastered to his flushed skin by rolling sweat. “I told you—roleplay has its place.”

“Fuck me, it sure does.” Lips press feather-light to his cheek, fingers still gently cupping Sherlock’s softened cock. “Happy anniversary, Sherlock.” John drops another tender kiss to his jaw, the cheeky tip of his tongue flicking out to taste.

“Happy anniversary,” Sherlock sighs back, boneless and loose-limbed against the wall of the bathroom stall. In a few minutes, he and John will tuck themselves back into their respective jeans. They’ll wash their sticky hands and tidy their hair, resettle their clothes and return to the pulsing tide of the dance floor.

But, for now, they exist in a world of their own, heavy bass beats muffled by a closed door, and bodies softened by mirrored synaptic bliss.

And it’s perfection.


End file.
